


Cafuné

by queerwatson



Series: The Lexical Gaps of the English Language [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerwatson/pseuds/queerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re in between cases. John’s sitting on the couch, watching telly, and Sherlock stalks over - in that dressing gown of his that always twirls just so for a dramatic exit - and drapes himself over the couch as usual. Except, John is on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cafuné

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the second piece in my Lexical Gaps of the English Language Series. I'm still going to be posting one a day until they're done. Thanks you guys for all the love on the first piece - I hope you like this one as well! It's a bit longer, but tomorrow's word count will go back down again.

Once John had known what Sherlock meant whenever he said... Well, that word that he still couldn’t pronounce, they had fallen into comfortable orbit around the thing neither of them was initiating. They sat a little closer together, but not much really changed... Well, John did sort of give up on convincing people that they weren’t a couple. He practically let the men in Dartmoor think they were married, and to be honest, it didn’t bother him at all. He’d sort of given up on dating anyone else while he was... Well, whatever he was doing with Sherlock.

All in all, he’d basically settled down and... He was surprisingly all right with it.

Well, perhaps settled down was a bit optimistic, what with all the running and the shooting and the casework and the body parts scattered all over the flat. Still, he’d settled into a life with Sherlock, and it didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon. He kept thinking of... initiating something, but the time just never seemed quite right.

There comes a day when they’re in between cases. The more famous Sherlock is getting, the less it’s happening, but they find a day. John’s sitting on the couch, watching telly, and Sherlock stalks over - in that dressing gown of his that always twirls just so for a dramatic exit - and drapes himself over the couch as usual. Except, John is on the couch.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to care, though, that his head and shoulders are in John’s lap - he seems fine - and it’s not that John really cares either. It’s just that half of the reason John hadn’t wanted to initiate anything was because he had, until this point, been rather uncertain on the topic of how Sherlock felt about touching someone for more than a few seconds. To have the answer literally land in his lap - it throws him off a bit.

“I’m bored.”

John sighs. “Yes, somehow I’m not surprised.” He pauses, looks down. “You know, you’re sort of... in my lap.” He realizes it’s possible that Sherlock just thinks he’s become part of the couch, and he feels like, before he assumes any of this means anything, he should clarify that he is _not_ part of the couch.

He’s already got his fingers steepled under his chin and he tilts his head a little, looks up at John like he’s being purposefully obtuse. “Yes, obviously.”

“Oh, well. All right.” He turns his attention back to the telly, then, and he’s not sure where to put his hands. He puts one arm up on the back of the couch because that’s easy and not a part of Sherlock’s body, but... Well, unless he wants to do something awkward with his other hand, he has to touch Sherlock somehow. Dammit - he’s not that uncomfortable with it, it just... Maybe it’s not the wrong time, though. Carefully avoiding eye contact, he puts his other hand in Sherlock’s hair.

Immediately, though, he turns onto his left side with his back against John’s stomach, presumably so he can see the television, and John’s hand moves back up to hover in the air, because that seemed like a hint.

Except Sherlock turns his head back to him a little and raises an eyebrow. “John, what is your hand doing?”

“Er - what is it doing currently, or...?”

“As in why is your hand hovering in mid-air when you were clearly comfortable resting it on my head mere moments ago?”

John smiles a little, shakes his head, and drops his hand back onto Sherlock’s head. Apparently no discomfort on either end, then. That’s good. He tries to pay attention to the telly again, but it’s difficult, feeling just how soft Sherlock’s hair is between his fingers, and feeling the warmth of him for the first time, sprawled across John’s lap like this. He starts to run his hand through Sherlock’s hair, sort of petting it, and cherishing just how surprisingly comfortable the situation is. Then, Sherlock murmurs something again.

“Sorry, what?”

“Ka-foo-neigh.”

“That... isn’t English.”

He can hear this disdain in Sherlock’s voice when he says, “Of course not. It’s Portuguese.”

“What’s it mean, then?”

“C-A-F-U-N-E. Acute accent mark over the ‘e.’ It means, John, the gesture of running your fingers through someone’s hair. Of course, the term implies a bit more sentiment, but either way.”

“What’s wrong with sentiment?” John asks in spite of himself. He had thought, though, that all this business with the not initiating something implied there was something sort of... sentimental... to be initiated.

Sherlock sits up then, turning to face him, and sighs. “You’re insulted. Why?”

“I’m not really insulted. I just... I don’t understand.”

“You’re lying, you’re making your disappointed face.” Sherlock looks down at his feet - they’re up on the couch and his arms are wrapped around his legs in a child-like pose. “It’s not to say that I don’t find _your_ sentiment... to be... good. I just don’t have the time for sentiment, John. Cases, Moriarty, too many interesting things are happening.”

Clenching his jaw, John looks down as well. “You had plenty of time for sentiment with Irene,” he mutters sarcastically, and he regrets it as soon as he’s said it, but he can’t take it back.

However, Sherlock actually scoffs at him. “There was no sentiment in my relationship with Irene. Admittedly, she was-”

“No, sorry, you’re not getting away with that. You moped for ages - you kept her phone. There’s sentiment in that, Sherlock.”

At this, of course, Sherlock gets up and sweeps into the kitchen, his dressing gown billowing behind him.

“Sherlock, you’re not - just explain it to me, alright?” He gets up and goes into the kitchen. “I just... I can’t know what you’re thinking. I can guess, and I feel like I’m better at it than some people, but the way you acted around her, and... Well, frankly, some of the things you’ve said to me, especially recently, would be taken as sentiment by most people. I know you’re not most people, that’s why - Well, you’re you, so obviously you’re not most people, and otherwise life with you wouldn’t be half as interesting. If it’s not sentiment to you, though, and you’re saying it’s not, then please just explain to me what it is.”

Pacing around the kitchen, Sherlock looks almost as frantic as he did that night at the pool. He scratches at the back of his head with a hand, this time, though, instead of a gun. “Don’t compare yourself to her!”

And, ow, okay, that feels a bit like a punch to the gut, and it seems like Sherlock missed all the nice things he was saying for the sake of the bit where he implied there might be some connection between what he feels for John and what he felt for Irene. “All right, all right. Fine.”

Sherlock looks up, then, something urgent and a bit wild in his eyes. “No - John, I didn’t - ugh!” He’s clearly frustrated, and John walks toward him, palms out, but Sherlock just keeps pacing. “There is no comparison there to be drawn - I do not feel sentiment for anyone, I’m a sociopath, high-functioning or not-”

“You’re only saying that because so many people have told you that. You feel things, Sherlock, I’ve seen it. You may trample them down, because they get in the way of your work, but you have feelings.”

“John! Do you want me to attempt to explain this to you?”

He sighs and sits down, realizing how little good he’s doing. “Yes.”

“Then please, don’t interrupt. As I was saying, you cannot compare yourself to Irene, because I was fascinated with her, she was different and I knew very little about her, and no one had previously interacted with me the way she did. No one has interacted with me the way you do, either, but there is a significant difference between how the two of you interacted with me, isn’t there?”

He looks to John for confirmation, and knowing better than to speak, he nods.

“Right, so. You cannot compare any sort of emotions directed at either of you when your approaches to me are so different. Besides, John, any sort of... _sentiment_ I may have felt for Irene, you are necessary to my work and you are the only friend I have, and you are much more... important to me.” Finally, Sherlock stops moving and looks at him. There’s something desperate in his eyes - John’s seen it before, but not often, and he can’t quite remember when.

He clears his throat. “Well, thank you. For the things you said -”

“They were merely facts.”

John cracks a grin. “Well, still, thanks. Also, I appreciate you trying to explain it to me. I realize it was probably difficult for you.”

“Nothing is difficult for me.”

He raises an eyebrow, but Sherlock isn’t looking. “Of course not.” He stands, stretches a little and goes back to the living room to watch telly again. He’s not trying to pretend it never happened - but now isn’t the time to take it any further.

Sherlock follows him eventually, but sits respectfully on the other end of the couch.

“What are you doing?”

Smirking a little, Sherlock turns to him. “Sitting?”

“When you were so comfortable sprawled out all over the couch just a couple of minutes ago?”

There’s a slight softening in Sherlock’s face before he lies back down dramatically as usual, his head in John’s lap. John puts a hand in his hair again, and smiles.

Maybe it’s still not the time to initiate anything - but they’re getting closer.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel the need to warn you guys - Reichenbach occurs in the next one of these, and the after-effects of that will be thoroughly examined. So, if you want to avoid the Reichenbach angst, and want to come back in when it all gets better, that'll be part 7.


End file.
